


Highbloods You Meet May Tell You You're Sweet

by Barkour



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Promstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is KARKAT VANTAS and you are TOTALLY MAKING OUT with your hot prom date (also known as JOHN EGBERT also known as LUSCIOUS LIPS). Do you PANIC or do you SUCCUMB TO YOUR PRIMAL LUSTS?</p><p>-->Succumb to primal lusts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highbloods You Meet May Tell You You're Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely unauthorized (except by dint of me harassing the Promstuck team after the fact for approval) FILTHY SEX FIC to be gently hammered into [Promstuck](http://archiveofourown.org/works/220164/chapters/331772) continuity if so desired by you, the reader.
> 
> I believe I can safely say this is the single most erotic piece of fanfiction starring either Karkat Vantas or John Egbert. I cannot be held responsible for any quivering hearts or loins.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are nine sweeps, going on ten sweeps, innocent as a rose. No brave and flannel-coated lumberjack has set forth to tame your virginal forests; no sailor in smart cap and jaunty smock has mapped your pure waters. The hand which now so very gently traces the inside crease of your left thigh with all the grace of a limping turtle is the first hand to alight upon the interior region of your legs, heretofore to be referred to as "the junk triangle." This is what John whispers into your ear as his fingers slide slowly up your leg.

"No," you say. "No. There will be no referring to my inner thighs or bone-bulge as the junk triangle, or the boner square, or the penis rhombus."

You misfired. In the lawless jungle that is John Egbert's thinkpan, you have taken aim at the Dirty Talk nodule and you have missed. No man, troll, shale imp, concerned father figure, or fashion-conscious rainbow drinker can save you now.

"The wang circle," he breathes. "The dick prolate."

"John, if you do not remember how to silence the untuned and unmaintained harpsichord inside your throat, I will silence it for you."

His hand is now definitely in the penis rhombus; it verges on the wang circle. The sanctity of your bone-bulge, so long guarded by the impenetrable fortress that is adolescent insecurity, is now in serious jeopardy of being violated by the chapped hand of John Egbert. In his seminal work,  _Trolita_ , Troll Vladimir Nabokov wrote, "Beggin' on my knees, baby, won't you please run your fingers through my hair?" You know now of what bony fingers, of what uneven nails and freckled thumbs he wrote.

"The shlong oblong," says John.

You stick your tongue in his mouth. It is very easy on account of how he never shuts his mouth, ever. Satellites are blinded by the light that reflects off his enormous front teeth, which close on your tongue like a bear trap.

"Sorry!" says John around your tongue. "I didn't know you were gonna do that!"

You stick your tongue in harder. You wriggle it first left and then right. You are almost 100% certain this is the sexiest thing anyone has ever done in John Egbert's mouth. His face wrinkles. One of his eyes squints. His hand has stopped its assault upon your junk triangle. The rival peoples congregate at the demilitarized zone to discuss the reasons behind Egbert's ceasefire. Unease settles upon your camp.

You pull your tongue back. "What? Why did you stop?"

John licks his lips. His tongue is very wet and now so are his lips, and also you think maybe you are dead because of how beautiful he is and because of how still his hand is at your bulge and how all of this is a dream and you are going to wake up in your cocoon with an unsheathed bulge and a vicious need for an entire box of chocolate-flavored Teddy Grahams. A thought: What if this is a prank? Terezi and Jade will wheel in a giant chocolate chip cookie with NO HOMO drawn on in blue frosting.

You grab John's shirt, and his hand slides up your thigh. His chest catches against yours and his glasses are cool on your cheek and his breath huffs out against your mouth, and he says, "Whoa, there, cowpoke!" And you want to say, If this is some elaborate joke, but there is no ire left in you, not enough even to raze half a rambling two-story house in the countryside. His eyes are very dark and he is smiling. The thing is--

"I love you," you say. "I love you so much I think it's terminal."

"If you die, I promise to be your grieving widow," says John. His glasses are crooked. He stares very earnestly into your eyes. "I'll cry at your tombstone every day. I will bring a tasteful arrangement of flowers every Friday in the shape of a heart."

"If you throw me over for some  _sizzlin' hot young thang_ \--" You airquote generously. "I'll come back from the dead for the sole purpose of haunting your adulterating ass for fucking perpetuity."

"I'll be Bill Murray if you'll be Casper," John swears.

"Oh, my gog," you say. "You have a ghost fetish. Is that what turns your crank? Bedsheets and chains clanking ominously in the dark hours of the night as lightning skates the horizon and some literary hack beats off to  _What's New, Scooby-Doo_?"

John leans into you. He pitches his voice very seriously; the words scrape a little in his throat. It is almost enough to replace the mental image of Eridan softly caressing his bone-bulge to the dulcet tones of Scrappy. 

"Listen, I didn't want to spring this on you on our first sexy date, but I have a pair of scissors in my bag--"

So you stick your tongue in John's mouth again. He's laughing, and he slides again; he slides so he's down on the bed beside you, and you're on the bed beside him. The hotel room smells like disinfectant and John's aftershave. You don't know why he uses aftershave; he doesn't shave. You are delirious with his absurdities.

"I wish I could wrap all the inexplicable things you do around me like a raggedy John blanket," you say. It is the most disgustingly romantic thing you have ever said.

"Karkat," he whispers, "I don't think that's possible! So you will just have to make do with me!"

He wraps his arms around you then. It's true, then. You are dead.

"If I die tonight," you tell him, "I want you to know that it will be because for the first time in my joyless, pathetic life I am not entirely miserable."

"Please stop talking about dying," says John. "You are totally killing the mood! And my boner! And also I don't want to think about you dying already. I just figured out that my feelings for you are of a I want to gay marry you in the back of Gamzee's stoner van nature."

"I am not gay marrying anyone in the back of Gamzee's stoner van," you snap, but it is too late to pretend you are not so in love with John Egbert that you would gay marry him here or there; you would gay marry him anywhere.

"I would gay marry you in the back of Gamzee's stoner van," says John. "I would gay marry you twice. On this junk do I swear." Tenderly, he cups your bone-bulge.

"Junk vows are not legally binding propositions," you say.

"Well, maybe you should try it first!"

You swell. "Of all the come-ons--"

"Shhh," says John. He kisses your nose, like you are his little Swedish housefrau and he is your manly goatherd home from an arduous day of herding goats. "I know that you are just hiding your undeniable sexy feelings for me behind a mask of anger! And I want you to know it's okay. It's okay to want me for my luscious booty."

"I don't want you for your booty," you say. "I want you for your--"

Your tongue sticks. Once more your brain betrays you. John is looking at you. His chin is tipped down; he stares up at you through his thin, short, dark lashes, of which there are so very many. (You have counted three hundred and twenty-five. That is three hundred and twenty-five reasons why you are a monstrous stalker.) The inside corners of his eyebrows tip up. This thought occurs to you: His heart is as soft as yours.

"John," you say.

"Yeah?" he says.

You shake your head. For as wet as John's tongue is (degree of wetness: like unto the mythical horrorterror arising from the deeps), your mouth is very dry.

"I want you for you," you say.

The world coalesces in John's smile. Each of his buckteeth holds within it a galaxy strung with stars and glittering dust. You've fallen into a hipster cliché and you can't get up.

"I want you, too," says John, like you didn't already figure this out at some point between him whispering sweet perversions of geometry in your ear and getting his hand all up on your crotch. "But for you. And your luscious booty."

His mouth crooks. It calls to you. You fall upon John's mouth. Was there a time in your life when you cared about things other than the shape of each of his teeth or the wrinkles in the soft skin stretched over his hard palate? It is but a dim memory now, lost in his throat. A team of hardy spelunkers armed with yellow chirpbeasts, headlamps, a year's worth of batteries, and their own mangrit could not hope to find it.

His palm rubs awkwardly from side to side across your bulge. It is the least erotic thing you have ever experienced. You are pretty sure you are going to die of lust. John whispers, "Karkat, I want to lick your nose."

"The fuck is wrong with you," you say.

He licks your nose from the tip all the way up to the creased spot between your eyes. His tongue is slimy and his buckteeth scrape your nose. Your chest catches. Love is the thing that makes you want him to do it again.

"Do it again," you say.

He does. He does, he does. John Egbert licks your nose. You wriggle against his hand and you feel him sigh against you; you see his hips shift, how he cocks them to one side as if he's--

"Oh, shit," you say.

"Is the nose an erogenous zone for trolls?" John asks as he goes for a third swipe. The tip of his tongue sticks out. He looms ever nearer.  "Because I'm super sorry for all those times I tried to pick yours."

"No, I-- I'm such a colossal douchefuck," you say, "why the fuck would you ever--"

"Dude, you're not making any sense," says John to your left nostril.

So you stick your hand between his legs. Your wrist bumps his arm; you nearly punch his thigh. John squeaks. There is no time to think about how of course you would almost fuck this up.

John's penis is hard and warm; it strains against his fly. You make as if to grab it and then remember: humans are soft. Humans break. So instead you set your hand against it, palm to the root, fingers to the tip, and you run it up, testing. John squeaks again. His hand convulses around your own fly and there is an aching heat in your gut, in your bulge, high in your thighs. John Egbert is the brave, flannel-coated lumberjack taming your virginal forest. You curl your thumb around the line of his hardened penis and push your hand against it and then down.

John's mouth opens. Ordinarily you would try to think of something sarcastic to say to mask how gorgeous you think the dangle of his uvula, but his hand on your bone-bulge is so tight, his mouth so wet. In the shivering, fever-burnt, twisted knotted wanting part of your noggin you think: wet, and you think: bulge, and you kiss him. You kiss him so you think his mouth might bruise. You kiss him because you want that John blanket after all; you want desperately for him to wrap around you and hold you and not go. You want to feel his warm, callused fingertips sliding along your exposed bulge, still sticky from the unsheathing. You want his thumb, that bony thumb with the freckles by the nail, the second knuckle crooked from a childhood break-- You want his thumb to trace the juncture between the lip of the protective bone-sheath and the root of your bulge.

You rub your hand desperately along his penis. You push; you fumble for his zipper. Buttons are the spawn of a lonely inventor who never knew the yearning of making delicate love to your prom date in a disinfected hotel room. John licks your tongue. Like an action hero going for the final blow, he pulls his hand up! Away! The man has undone your belt; he has unhooked the button to your pants. His fingers are limned with divine light! In a single thrust, he totally sticks his hand down your pants.

"Oh, my gog," you say, and then you come in your pants,  _which your lusus ironed by claw_ _\--_

You squirm in agony--also because the calluses on John's fingers scrape against your skin and each rasp sizzles--and you push your hips against John's hips; your hand flattens against his penis; you jerk your hand up hard then down again as his arm smashes your elbow. John gasps. He says, "Karkat!" and then his hand is on your butt; well does your gluteus maximus know the supple feel of those fingers. He pulls your hips closer still--the sizzle flares--and then (you think with vengeful satisfaction) his pants, too, are disgraced. All trousers in the vicinity of your hotel room have been officially ruined.

John sneaks his arm around your shoulders. You hide your face in his chest, which heaves like a boat that something something. It is hard to think of words for things other than how much you love him. But his hands are on your back and they are steady, and he is holding you. John is holding you. You burrow into his embrace, let his lanky arms engulf you. If you died tonight-- But you won't. You haven't died. This isn't a dream and it isn't heaven. It's just a hotel room. There's a brown spot on the wallpaper by the door.

He nuzzles your head. His lips move in your hair.

You muster up indignation. "What, are you foraging for food?"

"Karkat," John whispers, "I think I chafed my junk."

He wriggles his hips. Your bulge twitches, and if you believed in a merciful deity, and you do not, one or both of you would have thought to maybe pick up something with which to-- Your thinkpan turns over and empties.

"Karkat," says John. " _Karkat_."

" _What_ ," you say.

He kisses your brow, so very sweetly. You are his housefrau. He is your goatherd. You tip your face up to him.

"Take off your pants," he whispers.

You do, but only so you can throw them in his face.


End file.
